


Fundamentals

by westernredcedar



Series: Shards [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Art, Bitty's Junior Year, Canon from Jack's POV, Excessive Swearing, Jack's first year in Providence, Lots of implied sex, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Missing Scenes, because they can now, friendship with Kent, moody jack, tags added as needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: Everything in Jack’s life is new right now, from the towels in his bathroom to his Providence teammates to the sweet burn on his thighs from where Bitty’s fingers had dug in deep and hard last night.
More ficlet-style working through of canon from Jack's POV. Continues where Shards left off, at the start of Bits' junior year, but you can totally read this one on its own.





	1. Autograph

Alarm. Six a.m. Jack wakes up to an empty bed, but the smell of bacon and coffee drifting in from his kitchen are as a good as a warm body next to him to know he’s not alone. Jack stretches, body relaxed and loose. God, he feels good. He has forty-five minutes before he has to head out to morning skate. He hops up, pulls on a pair of jockeys, and does a quick fifty push-ups. 

Everything in Jack’s life is new right now, from the towels in his bathroom to his Providence teammates to the sweet burn on his thighs from where Bitty’s fingers had dug in deep and hard last night. Every day is something new. He lets himself feel that for a moment, then swallows his daily meds before heading out into the kitchen and today's unknown.

Bitty is stirring something on the stove, the vision of which has stopped being a completely startling sight to Jack over the last three weeks since Bits has been back in the northeast from his summer in Georgia. He’d stayed for a whole (oh god, a _whole_ ) week in early August, then had managed to make up an excuse (“She’s my cousin and her name is Shelly. She’s moving into Keeney Quad. If anyone asks.”) to come down three more times since. 

The startling part of this morning is that Bitty is wearing a crisp new Falconers jersey with ‘Zimmermann’ in deep blue across the back. It takes Jack a moment to decide how to feel about Bitty wearing his jersey; it’s surprisingly intimate and makes his heart race a bit. (Jack assumes that there is something on _under_ the jersey, but it hangs long on Bitty, so there’s no knowing for sure; he may need to investigate.)

To halt the shiver of uncertainty that skitters across his skin, Jack eases up behind Bitty and wraps one arm around his waist, let’s his lips linger on Bitty’s neck.

“Careful, honey,” Bitty says, not turning around. “Eggs are poaching.” 

“Mmm. Looks good.” Jack rests his chin on Bitty’s shoulder, and pulls a little on his jersey. “Where did this come from?”

Bitty attempts to look back at Jack, but his nose only bumps against Jack’s cheek. He laughs, and Jack holds on even tighter. “There’s this quaint service called shop.nhl.com. I gave them money, and what do you know, they sent it to me!”

“You didn’t have to do that. I can give you one of mine.” Jack kisses the back of Bitty's neck, along the hairline, and then steps back and leans against the counter behind him. 

Bitty doesn’t turn around, his eyes still on his eggs. “Jack, honey, I’m no expert, but I think I might disappear inside one of your actual jerseys.” 

Jack grins at the thought. “Maybe.”

“I prefer one that fits. At least in the vague sense that any hockey jersey _fits_.”

Jack grabs a piece of toast from the pile that Bitty has arranged on a plate, takes a bite. “I think I like it.”

“You think?”

Jack looks again, at Bitty’s long thin legs emerging out from under the familiar blue edging. His own name riding against his graceful shoulder blades. _Damn, yes,_ Jack likes it.

“Yeah. I think.”

“Well, I wore it for a reason…” Bitty starts as he turns around finally, like he’s about to chirp him some more, but his eyes get huge when he sees Jack, and he looks back at him eggs immediately. “Good lord, Jack Zimmermann, I thought you were dressed. If you are going to be standing there is your skivvies, you can’t hold me accountable if this fine breakfast I’m making for you is destroyed through neglect.”

“I'm not the one wearing a shirt with your name on it.”

“You’re not wearing any shirt, sweetheart.”

Jack laughs, and bites into another piece of toast. Contrary to his ruffled tone, Bitty seems to still be efficiently assembling some sort of spinach, bacon, and poached egg on toast delicacy that has magically appeared out of the bizarre assemblage of ingredients Jack has stocked his kitchen with so far. Jack watches him, suddenly swarmed with the quiet, don’t-say-it-yet thoughts that seeing Bitty in his kitchen inspire. 

Bitty finishes each plate of food with a firm twist of the pepper mill. Then he turns, looks hard at Jack, strides the two steps across the kitchen and...Jack can’t think of a better word than _crowds_ himself into Jack’s personal space, hands all over Jack’s skin and nose pressed up against Jack’s cheek, leg inserting itself between Jack’s bare thighs, and suddenly forty minutes until morning skate sounds like far too short a time. 

“I’m chewing, Bits.”

“I know. I’m waiting.”

Jack swallows the last of the toast, and Bitty is kissing him then, soft and slow and still so new that Jack learns something every time (like today: sometimes Bitty bites a little). 

They come up for air before Jack is too far gone. He breathes in. 

“We _are_ going to eat,” Bitty says, as if he isn’t the one trapping Jack against the counter with his entire body. 

“Yes,” Jack says. He needs calories, but god dammit.

They sit at Jack’s new table, shoulder to shoulder, bare feet entangled. The breakfast is delicious.

“So, what was the reason?” Jack asks after a while, as he scoops up another huge bite.

“Reason?” Bitty’s toes tickle up Jack’s calf. 

“For the jersey? You said something. Started to.”

“Oh lord, you’ll probably chirp me into next week, honey, but…” Bitty gets that red flush up his throat, “...will you sign it for me? I know it’s silly, but I just...would you?”

Jack freezes. He can’t immediately identify what it is that feels off, but his stomach is suddenly in his throat. He hopes he’s covered his hesitancy with a last bite of egg, because the thing is, he doesn’t want Bitty to be his _fan_. He has plenty of fans, and has signed jerseys for years, for strangers and friends alike. Bitty is different. He needs to know he’s different. 

Jack swallows. He’s taken long enough to answer that Bitty’s flush has deepened and he looks a little panicky. Jack squeezes his hand. “Sure.”

“You don’t want to,” Bitty says. 

“No, I do. Here, come with me.” Jack pulls Bitty up by the hand and leads him back to the bedroom, stopping in the den for a Sharpie. Bitty’s eyes are huge and worried, but Jack continues on.

He pulls Bitty down to sit on the end of the bed, which is still rumpled and sticky and smells of them, together. Jack leans in and kisses Bitty, soft and close-mouthed, just enough to help him relax. “Lie down?”

Bitty does it, and Jack straddles his back, puts down the pen. 

“I’m going to sign your jersey, Bits,” Jack says, “but that is not what I want you to remember when you wear it.” 

Jack allows his hands to drift up under the jersey along the soft skin and muscle of Bitty’s back, right up under his own name (Bitty is wearing some very small, very removable red shorts; Jack leaves them for now). Lets his fingers play against the arches of Bitty's shoulder blades, rubs his thumbs into the solid muscle along his vertebrae. Bitty groans and says, “Oh lord, what is this now,” so quiet that Jack almost can’t hear it. Jack lets his mouth follow, kissing pathways up and down Bitty’s spine and across the small of his back, feeling the jersey bunch up, out of the way, unimportant. Bitty shivers as Jack hits ticklish spots, as he finds them with his lips and fingertips. Jack traces his own name with his tongue across Bitty's skin, and Bitty’s body is gently arched and so, so smooth. Jack stretches himself out out over Bitty's back, skin-on-skin, until he can kiss along Bitty's jawline, until Bitty cranes his head around and their lips meet, open-mouthed and hungry, for a long, deep kiss. 

Finally satisfied, Jack sits up, pulls down the jersey, and signs a neat autograph across Bitty’s shoulder.

He presses in and places another long kiss along the back of Bitty’s neck at the hairline. Whispers, “I wrote my name, but you know what it really says.” 

“Oh lord, Jack. I think I might,” Bitty whimpers back, his face pressed hard into the sheets.

Twenty minutes before Jack needs to leave. Enough time to be sure Bitty knows for sure.


	2. Home

Jack hasn’t played with anyone who speaks French for four years. He hadn’t realized he missed it, just being able to casually speak and listen to the language his thoughts form in, but he finds himself seeking out Marty, just to be nearby and share a few sentences. 

[“You settling in, kid?”] They are unlacing after an afternoon scrimmage. Pre-season starts this week. 

[“Yeah. Still miss home, sometimes.”] 

[“You grew up right in Montreal, yes?]

Jack had been thinking of the Haus, he realizes, but he just nods. 

[“You ever need a taste of home, we’ll have you over. I order in bagels from Fairmount. Let’s make a plan for next week.”]

Marty pats him on the shoulder and heads towards the showers. Jack thinks about biting into a warm, honey-rich bagel (Fairmount is not his first choice, but he won’t tell Marty that...yet) and ponders his own definition of _home_ for a moment longer, then mentally checks himself and finishes pulling off his gear. 

*

 **Jack** _What do you miss most about Georgia?_

 **Bittle** _food_

 **Bittle** _also meemaw, my mother, being warm, fireflies. crazy good mattress. but mostly food. things I don’t miss: football all day and night._

 **Bittle** _where's this coming from?_

 **Jack** _I was thinking about home today. When Marty asked me about home, I thought of Samwell first._

 **Bittle** _goodness. I promise I won’t tell Canada_

 **Bittle** _besides it’s your home here too_

 **Jack** _I miss it. Shitty and I are coming to the home opener. Schedules worked out._

 **Bittle** _THIS IS THE CASUAL WAY YOU ARE TELLING ME THIS? GET ON SKYPE RIGHT NOW YOU MADDENING HUMAN._

 **Jack** _I’m on the team bus, Bits._

 **Bittle** _convenient excuse_

 **Jack** _You can yell at me in an hour, I promise._

*

Jack and Shitty meet up a few hours before the game; late lunch at Jerry’s, and then Shitty suggests they walk around the pond _for old times' sake_ , which Jack thinks is hysterical, seeing as how they’ve only been away for a few months. 

“How old are you? You sound like Maman when she visits,” Jack says. “But she’s been an alum for twenty-five years.”

“I know! Imagine how fucking nostalgic I’ll be by _then_. Dude, it’s going to be painful.” Shitty trots ahead. “Look over there! Remember that picnic we had? With that asshole dog that invaded and ate Chowder’s sandwich?”

“Yes, I remember. It was only in May.”

It is so good to be back, chirping Shitty and walking around campus like they've never graduated, but if he’s honest, Jack is sensing it too, and just as sharply as Shitty is. It’s only been a few months, but already Samwell feels different, like he is a tourist in his own life.

Faber is even worse. Jack can’t think of the last time he entered through the public gates. They don’t talk much, just settle in the back, away from the rowdy student section. It’s an ache, watching the boys pile out from the locker room together to warm up. At least Jack is still on the ice every day. He can’t imagine what this is like for Shitty. 

“They look good from up here, eh?” Jack says, nudging Shitty’s shoulder. 

“Shit, Jack. I miss this so fucking much.”

“Yeah. I know.” They sit quietly for a moment. Shitty leans in and Jack drapes an arm around his shoulders for a moment, staring out at the ice. Bitty appears to be scanning the stands for them, so Jack raises a hand in quiet greeting. Bitty catches his eye, then quickly turns back to the warm-up drills, and Jack smiles.

Finally, Shitty slams his hands against his thighs and sits up. “Fuck it. Let’s get some fries and shit. Enough moping. I’m here to watch some god-damn hockey, baby!”

“Yeah. You were so quiet and subtle at the Falconers game last week. I was worried.”

“Brah, if your eardrums aren’t busted by the end of this thing, I will fine myself.”

*

Part of what is different, Jack realizes later, is that though he’s back here at Samwell for hockey, and Shitty, and his friends, mostly he’s here to see Bitty, and that’s completely novel. There’s no nostalgia about that; it’s all new. This is Bitty’s home now, not _their_ home, like it used to be. The Haus is where Bitty lives, and Faber is where Bitty skates, and when he thinks of it like that, the dull ache in his chest actually fades away to nothing.

Jack still belongs here, he realizes. Because of Bitty.

When they get a moment alone in Bits’ room, Shitty happily distracted downstairs by kegsters and Lardo, he wants to say all of that in words, but he can’t piece together his thoughts properly. He attempts to communicate the same ideas by kissing Bits through the mattress, and he thinks that might be a more successful means of expressing himself. 

“So, do you like being back?” Bitty asks, when they come up for air for a moment. 

"It's like coming home," Jack says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent some enjoyable time researching Montreal food today, and now I really want to try the bagels. Anyone who knows more bagel lore or can correct my Montreal knowledge, please let me know!


	3. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after 'After the Kegster' in canon.

**Bittle** _got your text. I was finishing the dishes. I can skype anytime_

 **Bittle** _soon would be good_

 **Bittle** _i’m so glad you came to the game_

 **Bittle** _and stayed after_

 **Bittle** _I wish you could have stayed longer at the kegster_

 **Bittle** _or, even better, NOT at the kegster ☺ ♥_

 **Bittle** _and...your phone is definitely off right now_

 **Bittle** _it can stay on all night just in case someone needs you, you know. like me for example._

 **Bittle** _I suppose I will just have to wait_

 **Bittle** _at least until 5 am when you wake up to go running and get all of these and decide to never speak to me again_

 **Bittle** _when you wake up, honey_

 **Bittle** _FYI_

 **Bittle** _my phone will be on_

The texts come streaming in, one after the other when Jack turns on his phone, and the worst part is that Jack hasn’t actually slept at all. Bitty is right, it is five in the morning, but Jack’s been up all night, replaying Shitty’s comments over and over, and trying out all of the different ways he could have responded that would have been better than saying, “I’m not dating,” while Eric was standing right there. He hears his own voice deny, _publicly_ deny him on an agonizing circle of repetition, until the words stop having meaning, his body twitching every time his mind replays it. 

And Jack had also turned off his phone because apparently he can’t make a single correct choice today. He hardly trusts himself to respond now.

 **Jack** _Are you awake, Bits? I really want to talk to you._

There is a longer pause than usual before he gets a reply, but after a few minutes Jack’s phone vibrates again.

 **Bittle** _Yep. 5 a.m. You are lucky I like you so much Jack Zimmermann. On Skype._

Jack turns on the coffee maker as he passes the kitchen, bringing his laptop to the table. It’s still dark out, and early-morning-cold in the apartment, so he grabs a blanket off the couch to wrap around himself as he settles in and takes Bitty’s call. 

Bitty is lying in bed, eyes still half closed, the covers up to his chin, and Jack wants nothing more than to be there, snuggled into the warmth of Bitty’s body heat, their heads sharing the pillow. Shit, he’s tired.

“Sweetheart, did you sleep?” Bitty asks, before Jack can even say good morning. 

“Not much,” Jack admits, and Bitty frowns. 

“What’s going on? Can I help?” Bitty’s voice is sleep-slurred, his cheek still pressed into the pillowcase.

“I just…” Jack isn’t sure what to say. He wants to go back in time and handle the entire evening completely differently. “I _am_ dating. I am dating you.”

“Yes, you are, honey.” Bitty’s tired face gets a little smile, just peeping above the edge of his comforter. 

“I’m so sorry. I just...” Jack feels another compulsive twitch of regret start to build in his arms. “I didn’t think I would have to lie to him. And I...I wasn’t ready.”

“Jack, honey, is this all about Shitty?” Bitty asks.

“No. But I should have told him...about me. A long time ago.” On top if it all, Jack is a terrible friend. Add that to the list of his faults. It’s impressive in length today.

Bitty looks a little more awake now, pushing himself up to sitting and adjusting the laptop onto his knees. “Have you been up all night fretting over this?” 

“I should never have said I'm not dating. I didn't need to lie. I am dating. I’m more than dating. I am in love with you, Eric.” 

Bitty is quiet, just staring at Jack through the miles and miles of fiber optics. They’ve said it before, many times actually. Ending conversations with a casual “Love you,” had started almost immediately after Madison, actually. But this one feels different when Jack says it, and the long silence after hints that it might have sounded different to Bitty, too. 

“Jack. I don’t doubt that.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“I told an entire room of our dearest friends that I’m not seeing anyone, and you were standing right there next to me.”

“Fine. It wasn’t my favorite moment of all time, honey, but Jack…” Bitty swallows, and his eyes get a little wider, “...that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in love with you right back.”

Jack breathes deep and feels some of the exhausting panic drain out of his muscles. “Oh.”

“So listen. You have, what? Three hours until practice? Set your alarm, lie down, and go to sleep for two hours, and we’ll talk again later. Okay?”

Jack is suddenly so bone weary that he thinks he might just fall asleep in the couch. “Okay. Bits?”

“Yeah?”

“If I drove up to see you in person, would that be too much?”

Bitty’s hand drifts up to cover his lips, but not before Jack can see the smile forming. “Only if you sleep. You are currently a road hazard. But I wouldn’t turn down a visit.”

They sign off with a few final words (“Go to sleep.” “I will.” “Love you.” “Love you too.” The words have more weight somehow, now) and Jack staggers up to find his way back to bed.

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen as he wanders by, but the machine will keep it warm. He grabs his phone, makes sure it is on with the volume turned all the way up. Considers the logistics of driving up to Samwell in the afternoon. Then without thinking too hard, he calls up his contacts and dials Sydney.

*

"Do you think you've ever felt this way before?" Sydney asks. She'd managed to move some meetings around and made time for an appointment when he'd let her know he was making an unexpected visit to Samwell. And that he needed her. She counts his pills and they discover he's taken one extra, and he honestly can't even remember doing it.

"No, I haven't." Jack is confident of that. He'd never known it was possible to be so happy and so terrified at the same time. He'd always imagined those extremes would cancel each other out.

"You are managing something incredibly difficult, Jack. Consider forgiving yourself if you make a few mistakes."

*

Jack brings Bitty a hazelnut latte when they meet off-campus, after, and Bitty smiles and pulls Jack so close.

"I'm trying to let happy win," Jack says into Bitty's hair, and Bitty laughs and hugs him tighter and says, "I know, honey. We both are."


	4. Wilderness

Oddly enough, the first person who gets Jack on the phone after the doctor finishes stitching up his chin is John Johnson. Jack’s leaned up against his stall, waiting for approval to get up and rejoin the team on the beach for the rest of the game, when he sees Johnson’s number flash up as an incoming call, and it’s so extremely unlikely that he immediately hits answer, even though he hasn’t contacted anyone else yet, not even his parents, not even Bitty.

“Jack, that you? Shit, that looked gnarly.”

“Johnson? John Johnson?” Jack asks, even though it’s Johnson’s number, and Johnson’s vocabulary, and he’d recognize the slow, deep surfer-drawl of his old goalie in his sleep. 

“Yep, Jack Zimmermann. If it’s you, this is me.”

“Johnson, shit. Where are you? How are you calling right now?”

“Still hiking the A.T., Jack. And I’m using my phone. It’s not complicated. For once.” 

Jack vaguely remembers hearing an update from Shitty in the summer about Johnson’s continued slow, off and on meander down the Appalachian Trail. Jack had lived across the hall from Johnson for two years, been his teammate and his confidante. He’d considered him a close friend, back then. But they've hardly spoken since Johnson graduated, and so much is different. It’s like talking to the past.

Jack steadies himself. “I don’t know. Using your phone in the wilderness sounds complicated.”

“Actually, yeah, that’s true. You’re like, the first person I’ve spoken to on the phone for like, three weeks of linear time.”

“Wait, if you are out on the trail, how do you even know about...well, anything?”

“Okay, so it’s a wacked out story of fate, man. This afternoon I hiked into this little town, in like, (where the hell am I?), Georgia or whatever the fuck. And I go to this bar to pick up some kombucha.”

“They have kombucha at bars?”

“Well apparently, no, man. They totally fucking didn’t have it and had never even heard of it. But the point is, there was hockey on the TV at the bar, which was also really fucking bizarre, because, Georgia, like I said, and then there you are on the screen, and I didn't even know you were like, not at Samwell anymore, because time just keeps passing like a mother bitch. So I settle in to watch you and like thirty seconds go by and then you get fucking drilled in the face with a puck. What the hell? So, even though I haven’t spoken to you for over a year, me and like, a handful of dudes in a bar in Georgia are really fucking concerned about you right now.”

Jack shakes his head and discovers that smiling really hurts. He’s transported back to hundreds of midnight monologues by Johnson, usually sitting in Jack’s desk chair, in the dark, while Jack falls asleep. “You can tell them all that I’m fine. A few stitches and no other damage.”

“And you’re like, in the National fucking Hockey League, and on TV and shit.”

“I guess I am.” Jack knows this of course, but the idea of being watched in a random bar in rural Georgia makes the whole idea suddenly much more concrete.

“I try to listen when the universe tells me something, Jack.”

“I know you do, John. I’m glad to hear from you.”

The line goes silent for a moment. Jack tries to picture Johnson in some dive in the mountains of Georgia, with his bush of hair and his crazy beard. Realizes he can’t completely visualize his face, it’s been so long. 

“Jack Zimmermann, my phone’s not long for this world. I need to get it back on the plug, dude.”

“Yeah, okay. I have to get back to the game.”

“Hey, when you see him, tell Shits I think I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“You know, _everything_.”

The call disconnects. Jack sits there in the quiet locker room, and his chin throbs. 

*

 **Jack** _I either have a concussion or I actually just spoke to John Johnson for five minutes from a bar in Georgia._

 **Shitty** _I’m guessing you shouldn’t be joking around about a concussion, bro. but otherwise I see your confusion. what the fuck?_

 **Jack** _He was worried about me_

 **Shitty** _he was not alone_

 **Jack** _Just stitches. I’m okay._

 **Shitty** _see how much we love you? johnson fucking emerges from the backcountry to check up on you_

 **Jack** _Actually, he emerged for some kombucha. I was an afterthought._

 **Shitty** _okay, this conversation is making me feel hella better, because you are clearly fine_

 **Shitty** _so go reassure everyone else please. group chat is like a memorial. Holster is yelling, Chowder is crying. Bitty isn’t even posting at all_

 **Jack** _Yeah, okay. I need to call my parents too._

*

They get back from the roadie three days later, and Bitty takes the train down that evening. Jack wonders if a day will ever come where seeing Bitty walking towards him doesn’t give him a thrilling kick in the gut, but that day is certainly not now. Bitty’s all worried chirping and handholding on the way to the apartment. He insists on a long session on the couch once they get home, running through variations on intense kissing, madcap conversation, and gentle probing at Jack’s chin. Jack’s so ridiculously in love that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, can't figure out how to get wrapped up close enough to Bitty to show him properly how much he’s been needing this.

Eventually, Bitty settles his head into the crook of Jack’s shoulder, his fingers still brushing against Jack’s jaw line.

Jack tries. “Do you have people who were once important in your life who you never talk to anymore?” Jack asks, casually as he can.

“What, like old friends?” Bitty asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, sure.” Bitty’s fingers have started to trace a pattern down Jack’s throat and up along his jaw. “Doesn’t everyone? My best friend, Logan, from grade school. He moved away when we were eleven, but he was super important to me, like, my main person. For years.”

“Do you ever see him now?” 

“He moved to Oregon. We tried to be pen friends, but neither of us liked to write. So, no. I haven’t thought much about him for a few years, actually. I think he might follow the vlog?”

Jack tightens his arms around Bitty for a moment. “Sometimes I think I _only_ have those people,” he says. 

Bitty’s fingers stop their slow tracing. “Honey, what’s this now?” 

“Sometimes I go an entire week without talking to Shitty. I can’t think of the last time I talked to Holster. Actually talked to him, not just group chat.”

“Jack.”

“I don’t stay in touch with anyone from juniors.” He thinks about Kent for a moment, more than a moment really, but he and Bitty haven’t talked much about him yet, and now’s not the time. “Kids I won the Cup with, billeted with. I don’t know any of them anymore.”

Bitty sits up and puts a gentle hand on his cheek. “I don’t know what this is all about, sweetheart. But Jack Zimmermann, I'm afraid you are stuck with all of us. You go on ahead and try telling Shitty you think you are drifting apart. I’m fairly certain he’ll move in here just to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Jack smiles and the stitches on his chin pull a little. "That’s probably true."

Bitty snuggles back in against his chest. "And you know I’m not going anywhere."

Jack let's himself pull Bitty in even tighter, closes his eyes. "Well. I know that now."

Bitty gets very still and quiet for a moment. "You didn't know before?"

"I'm not good at thinking about the future without...it rarely goes well." 

Bitty pulls himself around until he's perched on Jack's knees with his legs pressed against his sides like a comforting bracket holding Jack up. "Are you with me right now?" Bitty leans in and kisses Jack, soft and slow, and let's it linger, deepen, until Jack has a break off to keep himself together. 

"God, yes," Jack breathes.

Bitty leans his forehead against Jack's. "Well, then. I'm officially inviting you to come and hang out at the Haus next weekend, not for any occasion, but just because, and then you can catch up all you want with Holster and Rans and take Lardo out for coffee, and see me. And we're going to Skype Shitty later this afternoon and show him your stitches and tell him about how I came down to be sure you're all right." 

"That's what's happening, eh?" Jack says.

"Yes." Bitty nods and rolls his eyes and then kisses him again, and even when Jack tries to imagine his life without Bitty in it for a moment, he finds he can't. And that feels just right.

*

Bitty is cooking dinner later, playing music and bopping around the kitchen. Jack pulls out his phone, still thinking.

 **Jack** _Hey, remember that game against Halifax when you scored nine goals?_

He has to wait for a few minutes, but then his phone buzzes, and Jack takes a breath.

 **Parse** _zimms? Shit yes, of course I remember, that was fucking madness. What's up, waltzing down memory lane?_

 **Jack** _I guess._

 **Parse** _hope your chin is okay, that was a hell of a hit. hate to think anything might mar your manly profile_

Jack looks up at Bitty, who isn't going anywhere. Jack's not going anywhere either, and giddy warmth spreads through him and to the tips of his fingers.

 **Jack** _Yeah. My manly profile can take it._


	5. Tabletop

Jack takes the stairs two at a time, and halfway up he can start to hear the pounding bass of whatever music is being blasted. Electronica? Technopop? He can’t keep track. As he gets closer, and can hear words, thinks they might be in some Eastern European language. Maybe Czech?

The hallway smells of paints, clay, and the deep familiar chemical scent of the darkroom. He hasn’t been inside the art building since graduation, but it feels surprisingly like he belongs here. Jack passes a few students in the halls, and is all too aware that he looks out of place in his suit and tie, just coming from a press conference in anticipation of the Aces game on Saturday. The music gets louder as he reaches his destination, room 212.

He knocks and then eases into the studio.

“Lardo?”

She turns around from the enormous, half-finished canvas in front of her, obviously deep into her work, palettes and brushes littering the space in front of her, paint streaking her face and in her hair. 

“Zimmermann!” she shouts over the music, and grins and barrels into him with a huge hug.

Jack didn’t know he’d been so missed. It takes a moment to process that, relax, and hug her back.

After a final squeeze, she lets him free, steps back, and gasps. She grabs her iPod and turns the music off, staring at him in the sudden quiet. “Shit, Jack. I’m so sorry.” 

Jack is confused for a moment, but then he looks down at himself. There are blobs and streaks of paint all down the left side of his suit jacket. Lardo spins around him in horror and says, “Shitballs. I got your back, too. There’s an actual _handprint_. I had no idea I was such a mess.”

“You...got my back?” Jack says.

They meet eyes, and then Jack can’t hold in the snorting laughter that has been bubbling up in him since first hearing Lardo’s ridiculous music choice from downstairs. 

Lardo tries to keep a straight face for a moment more, but then her crooked grin takes over and she shakes her head in mock dismay and walks around Jack again. “I totally got your back, dude.”

“Always a team player.”

Lardo finishes her assessment of the disaster. “Well, it’s not my best work, but there’s something to it.”

Jack carefully removes the ruined jacket (brand-new, custom-tailored, but he’ll never tell Lardo that) and lays it on a table. “It’s art now. I leave it to you. Make it into something good.”

Lardo shakes her head and says, “Damn it, Zimmermann, now I want to hug you again. But I’ll go clean up first.”

“Good idea.” 

*

It takes Lardo a few minutes to unpaint herself, wash her brushes, cover her palettes. Senior art majors get a reserved studio space for the year, which is where she’d told him to come meet up. Jack settles into a chair to wait, takes off his tie and rolls up his shirt sleeves to make his lack of suit jacket make more sense.

This is Jack’s second visit to Samwell just to casually hang out and see his friends: no game, no party, just a normal Thursday. Bitty had been down to Providence the night before; Jack dropped him off at the commuter rail station in town on the way up so that Bitty could Uber back to the Haus and not have to explain why he was arriving in Jack’s SUV. Jack hadn’t loved the subterfuge, especially after the anxiety of their anniversary dinner the night before (three months), and Jack is tempted to pull out his phone and text Bits right now to tell him that. But then Lardo trots back in. 

“I am so sorry, bro,” she says. “I hope that wasn’t some special, mega-spendy pro athlete suit or anything.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says, hoping his expression doesn’t give anything away.

“Do I still get you all afternoon?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” Lardo rubs her hands together. “I have plans.”

“Give me a rundown?”

“Look at stuff here, then head to Jerry’s. Get the big corner table. Order food. Play the new tabletop game I got for us. Two player, lots of tanks and artillery and other shit to attack each other with.”

Jack wonders when he’ll stop being amazed to find he has friends like this. “Sounds perfect.”

*

Jack had asked Lardo to pull out some paintings that she might be willing to sell to him. He’d actually said _part with_ since he knows paying for anything will be a battle. She’s set aside six canvases in a stack against the wall for him to look at.

Jack’s no art expert and he mostly just wants something to hang up to make his apartment less austere. But looking through Lardo’s new work, he finds he really likes her current style. Abstract but with some hint of what inspired her, with really deep bold colors in big, messy blocks. He can appreciate her use of form, line, and composition now that he’s been working on the same concepts in his own photography.

He knows which one he wants instantly, and he can’t wait to show it to Bitty so they can decide where to hang it so they can see it all the time. It’s mostly a big white oval, with some yellow and blue rectangles on a warm, brown background. Jack keeps returning to it over and over as he considers her various canvases.

Lardo gets her little half-smile. “I thought you’d like that one.”

Jack says, “It’s Faber,” at the same time as Lardo says, “It’s Faber.” They both stare at the painting for a quiet minute, and Lardo leans up against Jack for a moment. 

“I’m not taking anything for free this time, you know,” Jack says, resting his arm across Lardo’s shoulder. “I’m buying it. Just imagine I’m someone you don’t know.”

“I hate this, Zimmermann.”

Jack just pulls out his wallet and removes five hundred dollars, leaves it on her easel. He knows she won’t take it from him. “You know, I can ask Maman to help you get an agent, Lardo. So you don’t have to do this part.”

“Yeah, really? You’d do that? That would be boss.”

*

Jack hasn’t seen Lardo’s game face since the last kegster before graduation, but she’s an unbreakable stone wall across the table at Jerry’s during their game, slamming cards down with emotionless efficiency and destroying Jack’s well-constructed defenses with the precision of a surgeon. 

“Who’s your favorite person in Providence so far?” she asks, after breaking a devastating hole in his western front. 

Jack thinks. “I like a lot of them. Maybe Marty. He’s one of the captains, and he’s really nice. Speaks French, too.”

Lardo snorts. “Nice, and speaks French. Damn, you’re easy, Zimmermann.”

Jack rolls and then plays his cards and manages to take back a little territory. “It’s not too different there really. Just more travel, more press. Fancier suits.”

Lardo looks up. “Shit. I knew it. That suit _was_ fancy.”

“Forget it. I have twenty suits like that now, Lards. I have to.”

“I never understand that. Why?”

Jack shrugs. “I think they want us to look older than we are.”

Lardo looks considering for a moment, then “hmms” thoughtfully and rolls the dice. 

They play on in their old, companionable silence for a while. Eventually Lardo, not looking up, says, “Aces this weekend, right? How that going to be?”

Jack doesn’t look up, even though his heart beats a little harder. “Should be a good game. We’re well matched.”

“Talked to Parse?”

“Yeah. Texted a few times.”

“You haven’t been on the ice with him for a long time.”

“Six years.”

Jack still doesn’t really know how much of the truth Lardo has surmised from what he’s told her about Kenny, but he imagines she's guessed more than she’d ever admit. She doesn’t ask any more now, and he’s grateful for the silence. Thinking about Kenny makes his gut revisit the awkward evening’s conversation with Bitty, and consider again what he did and didn’t share about their past. 

“Have you ever told anyone your entire romantic history?” Jack asks.

Lardo plays two cards and says, “Shit no.”

Jack rolls the dice. “Why not?”

“No one’s business but mine. And most things I wouldn’t even know how to say out loud.”

Jack nods at that; he's not sure he knows himself how things had started and ended with Kenny, not really. He's spent even less time trying to understand what it all meant. But he still feels his skin shiver with regret at the bumbling, abbreviated version of their relationship that he’d given Eric. 

Thankfully, Lardo lets the conversation drop again, though Jack can _feel_ her thinking hard.

“You seeing Bitty this visit?” she asks, after another few rounds of play.

How does she do that? Jack hopes the flush he feels start to creep up his throat is not visible. “I think so. Maybe back at the Haus. I need to text everyone.”

“Good. You know that kid talks about you all the time. I don’t even think he knows how much he misses you.”

Jack gets a sudden, intense memory from the night before, of the smooth, sensitive skin along the inside of Bitty’s hip, of his own lips nuzzling a path along the ridge of pelvic bone and into soft blonde fuzz, of Bitty's voice murmuring _I love you, I love you_ over and over. “I’ll be sure to see him,” he manages to say, his eyes firmly on his cards. He doesn’t trust himself to look at Lardo, even for a moment.

"Definitely do that," Lardo says, and there's something in her tone that makes Jack wonder for the first time if she might have suspicions about more than just Kenny. 

*

A week later, she texts him a few pictures of Holster from different angles (one with Bitty laughing in the background; Jack saves that one) and it takes him a moment to figure out what's happening. Holster's wearing an outrageous jacket, entirely hand-painted with detailed wings and feathers on the back and up and down the arms, studs and sparkles along the seams, but then Jack realizes it's painted Falconers blue, and has little hockey sticks on the lapels, and is a really crisp, tailored cut.

 **Jack** _Nice. I knew I left it in good hands._

 **Lardo** _Come and visit it in person soon. You can wear it around. Also, I feel the need to crush someone's civilization again._

 **Jack** _Will do._

 **Lardo** _You know you can always count on me. No matter what, bro._

Jack doesn't think too hard about why she's saying that.


	6. Acting

**Bittle** _so how was it?_

 **Jack** _We lost in the last seconds. Tough one._

 **Bittle** _I know that, silly, I don’t miss a game. Lardo and I watched together._

 **Bittle** _I meant seeing Kent Parson._

 **Jack** _Would you rather talk about this on Skype?_

 **Bittle** _No. It gets me all flustered. Text is better._

 **Jack** _Flustered?_

 **Bittle** _I’m not jealous, I want you to get along, but. Flustered._

 **Jack** _Oh._

 **Jack** _In that case, Kenny glared at me for the entire game, then scored on a dirty hit that somehow still counted. So he’s pissing me off pretty good right now. How’s that?_

 **Bittle** _Not bad._

 **Jack** _But he texted me and I texted back. A bunch of half-assed chirps. Still okay?_

 **Bittle** _Yes._

 **Jack** _Is that a real yes?_

 **Bittle** _almost_

 **Jack** _Bits, if it’s freaking you out that I’m in touch with him, please tell me._

 **Bittle** _I’m just getting used to the idea. It’s okay, Jack. Really._

 **Bittle** _Really_

 **Jack** _Love you._

 **Bittle** _Call tonight. Love you too._

*

Jack pulls up to the Haus a long and lonely road week after the Aces game. Rans peeks his head out the door and waves as Jack sets the brake and breathes deep. 

He wants to be here. This will be great. 

He hasn't seen Bitty in person for ten days. He’s about to see him now, mere moments from now, something he’s been dreaming about every night. But he’ll be in the company of Lardo, Holster, and Ransom, and then they are all driving together up to Boston to visit Shitty for the day to go to a museum and have dinner.

Honestly, Jack doesn’t know how he’s going to do it. He and Bitty had tried to make a game plan over Skype before he’d left to drive up.

“It’ll be like ol’ times, sweetheart. Me, just pining away for you and lookin’ from afar.”

“I’m not sure knowing that’s how you’ll be feeling is going to help, Bits.”

“I’m coming down next week. We can make it a few more days.”

“I know we _can_. But I don’t want to.”

“Well, if you’re going to just state the obvious, Jack...”

They hadn’t ever really come up with a plan. 

Jack’s about halfway to the porch when Holster comes barreling out the door past Rans and tackles him into a hug. 

“Jack! We misssss you.” 

Jack manages to hug back. “You too. I miss this whole place.”

Holster steps back and holds Jack at arm's length. “You can’t come back, bro. We’re the Captains now.” 

Jack nods. There was a time a few years ago when he would have struggled to know whether or not Holster was joking. But now he just grins and says, “Understood.”

Ransom has followed Holster out and wraps Jack up in a warm hug. “I should not be going on this excursion. I have shitloads of studying to do.”

Holster groans. “Bitty’s got your flashcards, bro. The car will be like study hall, I swear.”

“Sure. Like the bus was going to be study hall, and our room was going to be study hall, and Jerry’s was going to be study hall…”

“I can’t help it that I’m so much fun you never get any work done.” 

Jack sinks into the familiar patter of their voices like a warm bath. Holster slings an arm over Jack’s shoulder as they walk into the Haus, and he almost forgets for a moment how hard this is going to be.

As they walk in the door though, a sweet Georgia lilt calls out from the kitchen, “Is that Jack Zimmermann?” And it all comes crashing back down. Jack thinks his cheeks might actually be getting pink just hearing Bitty's voice. Merde.

Lardo peeks her head out the kitchen door. “Jack! Great. We’re almost finished packing up the car snacks.”

“Car snacks! Yes.” Rans.

“Road trip!” Holster.

“Boston’s only forty minutes away.”

“But...traffic! It could be hours. Emergency traffic rations.”

Jack hears all of this in a sort of echoey distant part of his brain, while the rest of his mind considers what he’s going to do and say when Bitty finally makes his appearance. 

Bitty comes trotting out of the kitchen a few moments later, dish towel in hand, and makes a bee-line for Jack. “Jack Zimmermann, as I live and breathe,” he says, and wraps his arms around Jack’s waist, a sort of half side-hug. Jack thinks they really should have talked this part through because he’s sure that it’s right that Bitty is hugging him (they used to hug, before, didn’t they?), but he’s not sure what to do with his hands or what to say. He tries to gently pat Bitty on the shoulder and says, “Bittle. Hey. Thanks for making food.”

Bitty lets Jack go and swats him with the dish towel. “What? You move away and forget everything? Of course I've made food.”

As Bitty trots away back to the kitchen, Jack realizes he’s never noticed before what a good actor Bitty is.

*

“I’m surprised it’s still the same old Zimmermobile. I guess I thought you’d be driving your new Lamborghini or something, you NHL asshole,” Holster says, as they drop coats and bags into the the back of the SUV. 

“I _would_ be an asshole if I offered to drive the five of us to Boston in a Lamborghini,” Jack responds. Bitty laughs from right next to him, where he’s piling in some Tupperware filled with muffins, and Jack's body tingles. 

“I call the back seat for me and Bitty!” Ransom hollers from the porch. “He’s quizzing me on chiral synthesis!”

“Oh lord,” Bitty says, shaking his head, and Jack grins at him and their eyes meet and then Jack has to look away. 

Lardo comes up to drop her coat into the back, elbows Jack, and says, “Don’t worry, Zimmermann. I called shotgun last Thursday.”

“Why would I be worried?” Jack says, and then slams the tailgate with a little more force than necessary.

*

The drive is better than Jack had imagined. He has a perfect view of Bitty in his rear view mirror, and Lardo distracts him with her playlist of ‘songs from 2015 that Jack might like’ that she’s curated for the trip. 

“Bitty helped,” she admits. “We’re looking out for you, you know.”

Jack tries to catch Bitty’s eye in the mirror, but he’s too busy reading out flashcards and trying to pronounce complex organic chemistry terms to notice.

*

They meet Shitty in front of the MFA. He’s bundled up in a woolly hat and thick new black coat that Jack has never seen before. Law School Shitty. He looks a bit more put together and polished than Haus Shitty, and Jack isn’t sure what to think about that. He wants to hear Bitty’s thoughts about it, but Bitty is walking as far away from Jack as possible while still being a part of the same group. Which honestly is for the best. 

Regardless of his dignified clothing, Shitty runs and jumps into Jack’s arms so that Jack has to actually hold him up as he clings on like an octopus and kisses Jack on the cheek. “You beautiful, beautiful man,” Shitty shouts rather loudly, and Jack laughs and tries not to fall over on the sidewalk outside of the Museum of Fine Art. 

*

“You’re staring, Jack Zimmermann.”

They’ve kept their distance through most of the exhibit they’ve come to see, a fascinating historical retrospective on sports photography, but Bitty sidles up next to Jack now as he studies an elegant black and white shot of a swimmer’s back, mid-stroke. 

“I don’t know how they get that deep contrast with all of the reflection off the water. So challenging,” Jack says. He can feel the inches of distance between Bitty’s arm and his own, his hand itching to reach out and pull him close. 

“How are you doing, honey?” Bitty whispers, still looking at the photo. 

Jack looks around and realizes that Holster and Ransom are all the way across the gallery and Lardo and Shitty are walking into the next room. They are alone for a moment. 

“I want to take you home with me tonight,” Jack says, because they don't have time for anything but honesty. 

“Oh lord. That might be hard.” 

“I know.”

“But I want that too.”

Jack feels frozen; if he can’t reach out and touch Bitty, it’s like he can’t move at all. Their usual comfortable conversation feels impossible to Jack without leaning in or holding hands or even just looking at each other. So they stand and stare at the photograph for what feels like an hour, until Jack can identify the individual water droplets running off the arched shoulder blades of the swimmer. 

“Watch the drool, gentleman. You’re embarrassing yourselves.” Lardo slides between them suddenly, breaking the silence, and looping her arms through each of theirs. “Gorgeous pic. Although I’m not into swimmers and those huge shoulders. I prefer a solid ass.”

“We know, darling,” Bitty says with a wink, and Jack is shocked again at how quickly he can put on a happy face for Lardo.

“I was studying the photographer’s use of contrast,” Jack stutters.

Lardo raises her eyebrows at him and says, “Sure, Zimmermann.”

*

Jack starts getting texts as they dig into their dinner. Shitty has set them up with reservations at an Italian place in the North End, family-style with huge platters of food to share. Luckily, Shitty, Holster, and Ransom have gotten quite loud about intersectionality and the Ivy League, so no one seems to notice Bitty tapping away or Jack’s phone going off. Repeatedly. 

**Bittle** _If I tell everyone I’m going to study when we get home, I could meet you by the library and then we could drive down to Providence_

 **Bittle** _you’d have to drive me back tonight though. I can’t think of a single reason to be gone all night_

 **Bittle** _and you’ll be exhausted. And you have practice tomorrow morning._

 **Bittle** _so we should just wait until Wednesday, right? I already have that all set._

 **Bittle** _Are the Brussels sprouts good?_

 **Jack** _Yes, delicious. I’ll meet you at the library._

Jack catches Lardo looking at him (suspiciously?) for a moment after he sends the last text, so Jack quickly stows his phone back in his jacket and serves himself another helping of pasta. 

*

“You are good at acting, Bits. I don’t think anyone could guess about us,” Jack says later, when they have finally made it back to Jack's apartment, and sleep and studying be damned. Nothing else matters now that they are naked and wrapped around each other, lazily kissing and slowly (Jack hopes) working back up to a second round. 

Bitty pulls back a little, a crease formed between his brows. “I've always had to be, sweetheart. Pretending to be someone else was my best defense, back home.”

Jack runs his hands through Bitty’s thick curls and lets his words swirl around in his mind for a moment. “That’s terrible.”

“Naw. It’s fine. It just is.”

“Are you acting now? Saying that? Because that doesn't sound fine to me.”

Bitty gets very still against Jack and presses his face into Jack’s shoulder. Then he says, very quiet, “Maybe.”

“You don’t have to pretend things are fine, bud. You can tell me anything.” Jack pulls Bitty even closer and tangles his legs up and around him like a cocoon. 

“I’m not very good at that,” Bitty says into Jack’s skin.

“I’m not either. But we can practice together. We’re good at practicing together.” 

"Really?"

"Really."

Bitty pulls back a little and Jack can see that he's thinking over something, his lips pursed together and his gaze fixed on Jack. Bitty takes a deep breath and then says, very fast, “Kent Parson stresses me out like you wouldn’t believe.”

Jack wants to laugh, but he doesn't, he just pulls Bitty into a tangled hug, and Bitty hugs him back, hard. “Thank you for saying. Was that hard?”

Muffled, from Jack's armpit, “Yes.”

"I love you, Bits. Only you."

"I know."

"Can we talk about Kenny later? When we have clothes on?"

Bitty answers him by pulling himself all the way onto Jack's chest and pressing Jack into the pillows with a long, dirty kiss that fires Jack's blood right to his fingertips. But just before Jack lets himself get swept away, he wonders what other things Bitty is pretending are just fine, even when they are not fine at all.


	7. Therapy

Sydney has a new fern in her office and Jack has been staring at it for the last ten minutes as he talks and talks and talks. He can hear himself and how he’s hardly paused for breath, but he can’t stop, and every time he looks up at Sydney’s calm, amused expression, he just starts talking more.

All she’d asked was, “How are things with Eric?” Apparently, Jack has a lot to say about this topic. He’d started with the Aces game and the words just won’t stop.

“...so in the end it turned out that he’d been keeping all this in and not saying anything to me, just letting it fester and get harder and harder. He wasn’t sleeping, and he was actually failing that poli sci class, and all of our teammates were right to be worried about him. So we told a few of our closest friends, and I think that he seems more relaxed now, but I can’t even be sure, because I didn’t know before. I didn’t know how hard things were for him.” Jack let’s his monologue finally drift to a stop, because this is the point, isn’t it? “How did I not know?”

Sydney taps her pen a few times on her chair and then sits up and crosses her arms on her desk. “Jack. I’m going to tell you what I just heard.”

Jack nods, still shocked by the flow of words that had needed to pour out of him.

“You just described to me a person you are desperately worried about, a person who has been hiding himself and his true feelings in order to protect and support the people closest to him.” 

As Jack listens, the pinpricks and flutterings of recognition start in his gut and migrate through his bloodstream.

”He lets himself get drained, ill, overwhelmed, and he still doesn’t ask for help. He masks it all. The last people he wants as witness to his struggles are the people he cares about the most.”

 _Oh god._ Jack’s been in therapy a long time. This one is easy. “That’s me. You’re describing me.”

Sydney sits back and doesn’t say any more. 

“Oh god,” Jack says, and he wants to stand up and run out of the office and straight to Bitty. 

“Why do you think you didn’t know?”

“Because he was doing it for me.” Jack remembers those cheery calls to his parents in the dark days just before the draft and his overdose, how careful he was to keep anything from worrying them. Thinks about all of the people Bitty is still pretending for, and how much courage it must have taken him to call Jack and stop pretending.

“What do I do?”

“What would have helped you, back then?” 

Jack thinks, trying to remember the defenses he’d constructed, and how nearly impossible they were to break through. “I needed someone to help me change things so I didn’t feel so trapped. I couldn’t do it by myself.”

“No.”

They sit with each other in silence for a long moment, and Jack thinks about how it's possible that knowing Sydney all these years has saved his life. 

“Okay then,” Jack says, standing up and reaching for his coat. “I need to get started.”

Sydney sits back in her big chair, looking at him over the top of her glasses, still with a gentle smile. “It is time to end the session,” she says quietly, “but don’t think I missed the fact that you came out to your friends.”

That information was buried deep in his pile of words, Jack realizes. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Sydney says, still smiling. “It’s a milestone.”

Jack zips his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder. “I just did it. For Bitty. I didn’t even really think about it for myself.”

“Well, you should think about it. Celebrate. Eric needs you to take care of yourself. Once you do that, you’ll be far better at taking care of each other.”

*

 **Jack** _I’m dating someone._

There’s no reply to Jack’s text for over an hour, but his phone finally buzzes as he pulls into his parking spot for afternoon skate.

 **Parse** _Jesus, zimms, give me a little lead in, like hey how are you_

 **Jack** _Sorry. We started telling people and I didn't want there to be a chance you’d hear it from someone else._

 **Parse** _okay_

 **Parse** _sounds serious_

 **Jack** _It is._

Jack sits in his car for a while longer, just staring at the screen, but Kenny doesn’t reply, and Jack has to get on the ice. 

After practice, Jack grabs his phone before he even unlaces his skates. There are three texts waiting for him.

 **Parse** _well then, shit zimms._

 **Parse** _thanks for telling me_

 **Parse** _asshole_

Jack lets out the breath he's been holding, and laughs to himself. 

**Jack** _Not your best chirp, Kenny._

 **Parse** _give me a few days_

*

Bitty is reading aloud (an article about Quentin Tarantino for his film criticism class) on Skype while Jack cooks up a simple dinner (chicken and rice stir-fry). Jack has a game tomorrow, so he’s already mentally settling into his routine.

“That looks delicious, honey,” Bits says as Jack displays his bowl of food for the camera. “I can practically smell the properly balanced carbs and protein.”

Jack smiles and settles in at the table with his dinner and his laptop. “I did something today,” he says, and then takes a big bite to hide the nervous hitch in his voice. 

“Yes? Details?”

“I told a few people about you. My therapist. And Kent.”

Bitty’s face gets very still on the screen, and Jack wants to panic because he can’t read his expression at all. So he breathes deep and continues. 

“I didn’t use your name or anything. Just that I’m in a relationship. And how important you are to me.” Jack can feel himself starting to ramble again, like in Sydney’s office. “Well, to be honest, my therapist knows your name. But no one else. It’s not my place to…”

“Jack?” Bitty interrupts.

“Yeah?”

"You did that?"

"I did."

Bitty is still staring blankly out from the screen. “I hate this.”

All of the air gets sucked out of Jack’s lungs. “You hate this?” Oh no. Oh god.

But then Bitty’s face relaxes, and he moans, “That I’m not there with you. Because, I don't know what to say, sweetheart, but if I was there I’d be kissing you so hard right now, you wouldn’t believe.”

“You would?”

Bitty gets a ridiculous come-hither arch to his eyebrow, and all of the panic drains out of Jack's body. "I can describe in more detail if you’d like.” 

Jack feels his cheeks get hot, and quickly shakes his head. “My imagination is doing fine on it’s own."

*

When they've said their good nights and the apartment is quiet and dark, Jack sits on the sofa and cries until he's empty of tears. It's a strange, joyful flood and when it's over, he feels ready for anything.


	8. Dinner

**Maman** _I know we just got off the phone, but I went ahead and made a reservation for four at Hemenway’s for next Wednesday after your game._

 **Jack** _Maman, let me talk to Bitty first. I’m not even sure he can come down._

 **Maman** _Oh I know. We can cancel the reservation if we need to._

 **Maman** _I just thought I’d set it up in case it all worked out._

 **Jack** _Thanks._

 **Maman** _Does he even like seafood?_

 **Jack** _Yeah, it’s a great choice._

 **Maman** _Because I could call Al Forno, instead._

 **Jack** _It’s fine._

 **Maman** _You tell me if I should change anything. It’s easy._

 **Jack** _I will, Maman._

*

 **Jack** _[Is Maman freaking out?]_

 **Papa** _[I’ll be honest. We’re both pretty excited.]_

 **Jack** _[Oh. That’s great.]_

 **Papa** _[Tell Eric, will you. That we are so pleased.]_

 **Jack** _[Yeah. I definitely will.]_

*

Jack has never been happier to have an established game day routine. He needs something to distract himself from the fact that his parents will have arrived at the airport two hours ago, and that Bitty should just be getting in on commuter rail, and that they will all converge in a luxury box in another hour or so, and...fuck it, why pretend? He’s not actually able to focus at all. He misses Bitty like an ache, and there's hours to go yet.

“Feeling okay, Zimmboni? Look...far away,” Tater says, walking past and elbowing him, wearing only his underarmor.

Jack snaps back to the locker room, starts pulling on gear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” 

Actually, being _good_ is the problem, Jack realizes. He’s kind of floaty and dreamy, only occasionally swamped by the feeling that this can’t possibly be his life. 

“[Kid, that number 34 is going to be coming at you all night,]” Marty says, wandering over to where Jack is trying to breathe himself back into the present. “You know we’ve got your back.”

“[Thanks, Marty. I know you do. Sorry if I seem distracted. My parents are coming to the game.]”

Thirdy’s in the next stall, and his eyebrows shoot up. “We got Bad Bob in the house tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet. Think he might be willing to come down after?”

Jack’s mind instantly jumps to Bitty and explanations and dinner reservations and challenging logistics. “Maybe.”

Marty lays a firm hand on his shoulder and Jack tries to slow his breathing again. “Don’t worry about any of that now, kid. Just do what you need to do to get focused. We’re going to kick these fuckers’ asses tonight.”

Jack looks up at Marty’s game face, nods, and lets the steps of his routine start to play out in his mind again until he catches up with himself and starts his calf stretches, back on track and ready to get on the ice. 

*

The Falconers win an easy one. Jack gets two assists. He’s not even particularly tired after the game, just wired and impatient for the next part of his evening.

They decide by text that Alicia and Bitty will head over to the restaurant while Bob joins Jack for a moment in the locker room to meet the team. They have two cars anyway, so it makes sense, except for the fact that Jack has now been in the same building as Bitty for several hours and not even set eyes on him.

When his father walks in and gets gently swarmed by admiring Falconers, Jack steps back and just finishes getting changed. Something feels odd about the whole situation, until he realizes this is the first time (ever, really) that he’s watched any of his teammates fawn over his father without desperately wishing he could just disappear. He feels completely okay with it, actually. He wants to call Sydney, find out what that means. 

While he packs up his bag, Jack happens to overhear Thirdy talking to Papa: “We’re just lucky to have him.”

And Papa’s reply: “Yes. Us, too.”

*

 **Bittle** _Your mother is openly mocking me for being worried that she was going to find out I drink sometimes and I’m not 21._

 **Bittle** _And now she has bought us a bottle of wine._

 **Jack** _Heh._

 **Jack** _Almost finished here. Papa can’t stop talking to Guy._

 **Jack** _You’re okay with Maman?_

 **Bittle** _She’s currently copying one of my cobbler recipes onto a cocktail napkin._

*

By the time Jack and Bob arrive, Bitty and Alicia have finished their first glasses of wine and are quite pink cheeked and chummy. Bitty stands up (in his graduation bow tie and jacket, oh god) to shake Bob's hand, all formal, and suddenly Jack is overwhelmed with the fact that this is really happening, that he's madly in love with Eric Bittle and introducing him to his parents. 

Jack hugs his mother, and then he's face-to-face with Bitty in this crowded restaurant, and an awkward space forms between than that neither of them dare step into. Bitty looks gorgeous, eyes bright and lips flushed from the wine. They talked to each other five hours ago, but that seems like forever, and Jack desperately wants to pull him in for a kiss (it’s been well over a week, christ), but he doesn’t dare, and so they say hello and settle in next to each other at the table, but miles apart. Jack reaches out under the tablecloth and grabs Bitty’s hand for a moment, and they both squeeze hard, and it has to do.

They eat and chat like they’ve done this before, as if this is not a momentous event for all four of them. Eventually, during the entrees, Bitty gets Alicia going about life in the fashion industry (and it’s almost too much for Jack to see how well they get along), so his father leans over to talk hockey.

“L'équipe a bien joué ce soir.” 

“Ouais. Je pense que nous avons enfin fini par nous connaître assez bien. Il a juste pris du temps.” Jack has been thinking a lot about how the team had really needed time to gel, to able to read each others’ movements, to trust in plays.

“Me rappelle ma première année à Pittsburgh…”

“Jack, Bobby.” Alicia is giving them both a look, eyebrows raised. “In English, boys.”

Right. Jack squeezes Bitty’s knee under the table. “Sorry, Bits. I forget with them. We were just talking about the team.”

“Oh it’s fine. I don’t want y’all to change on my account. It’s my own fault that I couldn’t get further with French last semester. I’ll keep trying.”

“Yes, Jack told us you were taking a French class,” Alicia says, taking a bite of her scallops.

“He did?”

“Talks about you all the time, actually,” Bob adds. "I don't know why we didn't guess."

Jack knows he’s already flushed from his half-glass of wine. But honestly.

“I didn’t speak a word of French when I met Bobby,” Alicia continues, “but now I’ve had thirty years to learn. So just wait; in thirty years, you’ll be fluent as well, Eric.”

Jack isn’t sure if his mother knows what she just said, but he heard it loud and clear and so did Bitty, if the iron grip on Jack’s thigh is anything to go by. (God, Jack wants to kiss Bitty so much it's starting to be painful.)

“I don’t know. I’m pretty hopeless with languages,” Bitty says. 

“You’ll learn,” Alicia says, and then she gets a look in her eye which Jack recognizes means she might start to cry if they don’t change the subject immediately.

"So Papa, what were you saying about Pittsburgh?”

*

Sipping his port after dessert, Bob leans back in his chair and looks at Jack and Bitty with a thoughtful expression. “I never really understood before how hard this is,” he says, vaguely gesturing at the two of them.

Jack looks at Bitty, who looks just as confused as Jack feels. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...when did the two of you last see each other?”

“Eight days ago,” Jack and Bitty say immediately and in unison, and everyone laughs a little and Jack finds Bitty’s hand under the table again.

“You have been apart for eight days, and here you are at this romantic restaurant, introducing your partner to your parents, and you haven’t kissed or hugged or even touched each other. I mean, when I haven’t seen your mother for that long...” He is shaking his head and Alicia reaches out and places a hand on Bob’s arm. “I knew it was difficult, and I know what’s at stake, but I guess I’m over here having an epiphany about how hard it really is. And it’s not right. It’s not right.”

Jack’s heart is pounding and he doesn’t think he can look even at Bitty. This is his father. All he can manage to say is, “Thank you, Papa.”

*

“So, am I crazy, or are your parents ready to marry us off?”

They are back in Jack’s apartment, finally, after saying goodnight to the Zimmermanns, then getting swept away by intense and lingering kisses in the car, followed by a brief negotiation. (“I thought I needed to drive you back tonight.” “I'm staying.” “Don’t you have a class in the morning?” “Jack Zimmermann, I will be spending the night with you and skipping that class, thank you very much.”) They have been slowly but methodically removing layers of clothing from each other since making it in the door, and Jack is now down to his socks and jockeys, and Bitty's shirt is all that he has left, and it's unbuttoned and coming off of one shoulder. Jack had intended to make it to the couch, but they've ground and stripped and fumbled their way only as far as the middle of the living room floor, and Jack is feeling very thankful for his recent purchase of a rug that's proving quite comfortable.

"They love you, Bits," Jack says as he let's his mouth wander down the soft skin of Bitty's chest, lingering along the ridge of his ribs, and Bitty's fingers lace through his hair.

“I mean (oh, fuck, Jack) when your Mama said thirty years, I didn’t even panic. What do you think that means?”

“I think it means we keep going,” Jack says into the skin of Bitty’s side. His fingers burrow under Bitty’s back and Bitty arches up and Jack mouths at his belly and wishes he could somehow get even closer. "Because I didn't panic either, Bits."

Bitty pulls Jack up, hot skin against his own, into a deep kiss that feels like a declaration.

"Thirty years," Bitty repeats again, his forehead pressed against Jack's and his big brown eyes so hopeful, and Jack decides he's fine if they start counting right at that moment.


	9. Insomnia

Jack hasn’t been sleeping well. It’s an old pattern, one he thought he’d seen the last of- pick a regret and stick it in replay: a flubbed shot, poor execution in the second period, the awkward way he talked about the team in the press room, whether or not he should have gone out after the game, waking up fifteen minutes late, canceling on Sydney, missing a call with Bits. He can find hundreds of them. A spiral that keeps his pulse high, his eyes open, and his bed like a prison.

He’s awake, fourth night in a row, and rather than just continue to flounder in the mangled mess of his sheets, he decides to get up and start his day. The clock says 2:36 a.m.

Jack starts the kettle for some chamomile tea, thinks maybe he should watch tape and prep more for the Red Wings, when what he really wants to do is call Bitty. But Bitty has a midterm the next day and a roadie starting on Friday and Jack can’t do that to him, even though he knows Bitty will be pissed later that he didn’t call anyway. Jack picks up his phone and stares at it for a while.

 **Jack** _Come down for the weekend? I have two home games, so you could mostly have the place to yourself to work._

It’s the middle of the night, so Jack doesn’t expect a reply. His phone buzzes though, a few moments later.

 **Shitty** _this can’t be Jack Zimmermann. it’s almost 3am_

 **Jack** _I thought you’d be asleep._

 **Shitty** _I have five hundred twenty-seven pages of reading due tomorrow. What’s your excuse?_

 **Jack** _My brain._

 **Shitty** _Shitballs, bro. You okay?_

 **Jack** _Better. Can you come down?_

 **Shitty** _I can get down there by 3 on Friday. I require a large work area, caffeine, and occasional sustenance_

 **Jack** _It’s a 1900 square foot apartment, there’s a coffee maker, and I have twelve take-out menus in a drawer._

 **Shitty** _Sold. See you Friday. Go to bed._

Jack takes his tea back into the bedroom, tucks himself in, and falls sound asleep.

*

When Shitty arrives at the door to Jack’s apartment, he’s carrying an enormous backpack, two plastic bins full of books and paper, and an overnight bag. Jack’s entire body feels lighter, knowing he’s here. Shitty shakes his head as he pushes past and starts dropping most of Harvard Law School into Jack’s living room. “You don’t fucking see me, brah, you don’t even know I’m here until I have finished reading this chapter and drafted my section of our goddamn group presentation for torts.”

“Got it,” Jack says, checking his watch. He’s on a timeline for the game tonight. “Need to nap anyway.”

“I miss the fuck out of you already!,” Shitty shouts, as he starts to arrange his laptop and notebook on the coffee table, and Jack retreats to his room, hoping to manage a little sleep.

*

“When you’ve had insomnia before, you’ve typically realized something was weighing on you. Something you were not dealing with or admitting. Do you think that is happening again?” Sydney is able to call him back after the game, and Jack tucks himself away in the loading dock for a quick check in.

“I don’t know,” Jack admits. And he doesn’t. “Mostly everything has been feeling great.”

“With anyone else, Jack, I’d suggest cutting out caffeine and increasing your exercise.”

Jack snorts. He can perfectly imagine Sydney’s dry expression.

She continues. “I know. So think about what might be on your mind. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

*

Shitty has commandeered the entire living room by the time Jack gets home. There are books and papers spread onto every available surface, and Shitty is reclined on the couch in his underwear with his laptop and a beer.

It is so familiar and also so out of place that Jack feels a little floaty. Shitty raises his bottle to him. 

Jack sheds coat and shoes, downs the last of his chocolate milk, and stows his gear bag in its spot in the closet. “Am I allowed to acknowledge you yet?”

“Dude, this law school shit never ends, but I did get three assignments finished, and I read a chapter ahead in this goddamn contracts tome. So now I get to sip a cold brew and spend some quality time with Jack Zimmermann of the Providence Falconers. Checked the score. Congrats on the win, brah.”

“Thanks. I’m going to change. Have you eaten?” 

They order from the Italian place down the street. Shitty gets lasagne, and Jack orders the same thing he eats after almost every home game. 

“That’s half a chicken, Jack.”

“Yep.”

Jack let’s Shitty have the drumstick. 

*

Jack breaks one of his personal rules and has a post-game beer after dinner. He and Shitty settle in on the couch, feet up on Shitty’s piles of books, and Jack feels tension simply drain out of his body. Fuck, maybe this is it, what’s keeping him up at night. He just misses Shitty. Misses everybody. 

“So, Jack,” Shitty says, head thrown back, third beer in his hand, giving Jack the side eye, “if I asked you a yes or no question, would you answer it?”

Jack considers. “Probably.”

Shitty swallows, and then says, “Cause I have like, a thousand questions, bro. And none of it’s any of my fucking business, but God dammit I want to ask anyway. You can tell me to fuck off and I completely support you if you do.”

Jack isn’t sure where this conversation might go, but he’s been tired of pretending, especially with Shitty, for fucking ever. He hears Sydney in his head, reminding him he needs to take care of himself. “Just ask.”

“Okay. So,” Shitty sits up and takes a swig of his beer. “Have you dated men before? Before Bitty?”

Jack’s breath gives out for a moment, but it's long past time to say it out loud. He inhales. “Yes.”

Shitty’s eyebrows rise, and Jack realizes that was not the answer he thought he’d be getting. “So, yes. Okay. You answered yes to that one.” Shitty strokes his mustache for a moment, all pensive, and Jack eyes him, amused. “Sorry, I have this damn flow chart in my head of all of the things I’ve been wondering and I need to follow it to see what to ask next.”

Jack sits back and waits, heart hammering. Now that he’s said the first _Yes_ he’s ready to say more. All of it. Finally. 

“Did you hook up with guys at Samwell?” Shitty asks. Jack can tell he’s trying not too, but he sounds incredulous.

“No.”

“So before college?”

“Yes.”

“During juniors?”

“Yes.”

“How many? Wait, don’t answer, that’s not yes or no…how about, less than five?”

“Yes.” 

“We're any of these...relationships? Like, more than hook ups?”

Jack breathes. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. One.” 

“Okay.” Shitty gets quiet again, and Jack has a very good guess about what his next question might be. 

“You don’t have to ask, Shits. I will just tell you.”

Shitty waves him off. “No, no. I’m diggin’ this ‘yes or no’ thing. It’s like I’m a freaking lawyer or some shit.”

Jack smiles. “Then go ahead and ask.”

“So this relationship.” Shitty looks around the living room as if someone might be overhearing him, then whispers, “Parson?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Shitty collapses back on the couch, arms flailing. “Holy fuck, dude.”

“Yep.” Jack’s nervous energy spikes. He twitches up from the couch, then covers by going to get them two more beers. “There you go, Shitty. Now you can make millions selling my story.”

Shitty rolls his eyes and punches Jack in the shoulder. “Please, brah. Give me some credit. If I’d wanted to make millions off you, I could have done it long ago. Think of the fucking shit I know, asshole.”

“Yeah, but this is the headline.”

“Maybe.” Shitty takes his new beer and swigs, now perched on the edge of the couch next to Jack. Jack can actually feel the gears in Shitty’s brain turning over this new information. Finally, he nudges Jack’s shoulder and says, “Does Bitty know?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

It’s quiet again for a moment, and Jack thinks he should probably put on some music or something, when Shitty suddenly shouts, “Holy shit, Zimmermann! When he’d stop by the Haus, was that for sex?”

“No! No, I haven’t slept with him since I was nineteen.”

Shitty stares at him for a moment, then suddenly bursts into hysterical laughter, doubled over. “I’m sorry, brah. I’m supposed to be hella good at this shit, but honest to fuck, you were having sex with Kent Parson when you were teenagers, and this...this is just me needing a serious minute for my worldview to adjust, my friend. Fuck.”

Jack isn’t sure what he’s feeling exactly, some sort of mix between bliss and heart attack, but it feels good, honest and exhilarating. He doesn’t have a clue what else to say or do, so he falls back on the old standby; he pulls Shitty isn't a headlock, ("Shit, Jack! I'm a defenseless law student!") and wrestles him onto the floor. “Should I force you to listen to some of the poetry he once wrote to me?”

Shitty, from under Jack’s elbow, still hysterical. “Parson did not write you poetry!”

“Fine, he didn’t, but I could pretend.”

“No poetry. _No pretend poetry!_ Gah! Uncle!”

*

Once the initial adrenaline recedes, they calm down and make coffee, and Jack just starts talking, and Shitty listens. 

He’s explaining how fucked up he’d been after rehab, sure he’d never even be attracted to anyone ever again, when Shitty runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “You know what I’m mostly feeling right now, Jack? Honestly?”

“No.”

“Like a piss-poor friend. You had all this shit going on, and I had no fucking clue.”

“You didn’t know, Shits. I worked hard to be sure you didn’t.”

“Well, I’m fucking here for you now, you asshole. And Bits. Just tell me where to stand and I’ll be there for you. Every time.”

Jack feels weight fall of his shoulders that he didn’t even know he was carrying. “Thanks, Shitty.”

*

They call Bitty a little later; he’s settled into his hotel room in Troy. Jack knows he and Shitty are both a little drunk, and that Bitty is fully aware of that fact and laughing at them, his eyes bright and mischievous, even through the poor Skype connection.

God, he’s in love.

“I swear," Bitty says, "the two of you should not be allowed unsupervised visits.”

“No, Bits, it’s been great. Jack ate half a chicken by himself.”

“Shitty ate the leg.”

“Have you been throwin’ down over something? Your hair is a sight, Jack Zimmermann.”

Shitty pats at Jack’s head for a moment. “Us? Throwin’ down, Bits? It’s been all tea parties and crooked pinky fingers for us…”

It happens then, watching Shitty and Bits crack each other up over Skype. Suddenly, Jack _knows_. He knows why he’s been up for days, nervous and edgy. Knows that tonight with Shitty was the dress rehearsal he’d needed to finally figure it out. He’s ready.

“Hey. I decided I’m going to start telling the team. About us. About me,” Jack says, non sequitur (he’s lost track of what crap Shitty is even saying). “I’ll try to meet with Georgia tomorrow and tell her, to get the ball rolling.”

It’s very quiet and Shitty and Bitty are both looking at him. Then Shitty whispers, “Bits, I can kiss him for you if you want.”

“Yes, please. But no tongue, Shitty Knight.”

Shitty plants a wet smack on Jack’s cheek, and says, “You asshole,” and Bitty lets out a little high pitched squeal, and Jack knows without a doubt that he will sleep hard, all night.


	10. Next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was well underway with this chapter when we got Bitty's new canon tweets about Tater, and Hurrah! Confirmed!

You’re still coming to the game Friday?” Jack asks over his shoulder into the screen. He’s multitasking trying to read his mail and talk to Bitty at the same time, just home from practice.

“Yes sirree, sweetpea. I’m counting down days and pages of reading.”

It has only been a week since Bitty was down for the (delicious, easy, miraculous) dinner at Marty and Gabby’s place. It had felt so fucking good to introduce Bitty as his boyfriend, Jack’s been a little bit high on it ever since. They’ve talked at least twice a day since, but it’s been getting harder and harder to say goodbye to Bits each time, and Friday sounds ridiculously far away.

“You know, honey,” Bitty continues, “it’s the birthday of one Justin Oluransi this Thursday. I was thinking of buying him a ticket to the game, too. We could take the train down together. Maybe an...introduction could be arranged?”

Jack stops reading his electric bill for a moment and looks at the screen. “Tater?”

“He talks about him all the time, Jack. It’s adorable.”

“Easy. I can get the seats, Bits.” Jack thinks for a minute. “I’d like to tell Tater next, anyway.”

Bitty gets quiet. “You mean...?”

Jack nods. “Do you want to?”

Bitty stares at him for a moment, then nods. “I mean, Jack, I thought this ‘coming out to the team’ would be years and years, not two and a half weeks. I’m not complaining. Just...a little overwhelmed.”

“We don’t have to. I can wait until you’re ready.” Honestly, Jack wants to stand on a bench in the locker room and shout at this point, but he’s not going to take any more steps without Bitty right there with him.

“No, no. I’ve been dying to meet Tater, too. Let’s do it.”

*

Rans shows up in the locker room on his own on Friday after the game, flashing the all-access badge Jack had sent him to everyone he passes. It had been a messy game against the Islanders, but Jack had scored the winning goal in the last minutes, on Tater’s assist. It’s a good night. 

“Happy Birthday,” Jack says. He's still getting dressed, but they exchange a quick hug. Jack is awkwardly aware he hasn’t kept up with Ransom for a while, not the way he should have.

“Hell of a game, Jack,” Rans replies. “That was some sweet shit in the last period. Damn, made me miss playing with you something fierce.”

“Thanks.” There’s a small pause, a readjustment. Jack starts to ask, “So, how are classes…?” but a loud voice interrupts.

“Zimmboni! This kidnapping friend?”

Jack turns to see Tater looming behind him to greet Ransom. He'd had filled Tater in about Ransom's visit before the game. (“Loves me? Then I will for sure like this guy.”) He'd also needed to explain the meaning of Ransom's name, which had amused Tater far too much.

Ransom gets all stiff and wide-eyed and says, “Mr. Mashkov, it’s a honor,” in this formal tone Jack has only ever heard him use when speaking to a professor. His voice falters a little though, so Jack looks up from his gear. 

“Shit, Tater. Put on your pants,” Jack says, eyeing him up and down. Tater’s in an undershirt and his jock. 

“Make meeting memorable. Not every day see sweet Tater ass.” He winks, and Ransom makes a little strangled sound in his throat.

“It is every day for me,” Jack mutters, and nudges Ransom, who is frozen and staring. 

Tater wanders off towards his stall. “You like chicken wings, Kidnapping? We all go eat.”

“O-okay,” Ransom stutters. 

Jack thinks he probably should have prepped Rans a little more about what to expect from Mashkov. Maybe a change of subject. Jack peers around. “Rans, where’s Bitty?”

“Jack, that was Alexei Mashkov’s ass.” Awed whisper. 

“I know, Rans. But where’s Bits?”

“Huh? Oh shit...Jack. Bitty said he wasn’t sure if he should come in or not so he’s waiting for us outside.” 

Merde, Jack thinks as he laces his shoes. All of their planning, and they still get their wires crossed. He cracks open his chocolate milk and takes a huge gulp. 

Across the locker room, Tater starts singing in a clear baritone as he pulls on his jeans. “Cliiimb every mountain…Fooord every stream…” There’s a chorus of good-natured groans. 

Ransom looks at Jack, his eyebrows pulled tight together. 

“He’s been into musicals lately,” Jack says with a shrug. 

*

One of Jack’s favorite things about Tater is that he is a talker, which had helped Jack to no end during his first weeks with the Falconers. Just when he’d start to panic and retreat into himself, Tater was always there, plopping down into Jack’s personal space and asking him to explain the Battle of Shiloh or pizza bagels or something. It’s working to their advantage now over the piles of chicken wings Tater has ordered. He’s engaging Ransom in animated conversation about Samwell and the Falconers’ season, and Rans has finally relaxed and has a shocked, blissed out look on his face to be having this long, rambling conversation with his hero. 

Bitty, on the other hand, is sitting next to Jack on their bench seat, radiating nerves, practically vibrating, and Jack’s hands feel frozen in place because he can’t touch him or comfort him yet. He’s listening to Rans and Tater with about fifty percent of his brain, while the rest of his attention is focused on the nearness of Bitty's arm and the quickness of his breath. There had been a moment when he, Tater, and Rans has walked out of the locker room and met up with Bitty (God he’s missed him, so handsome, in Jack’s jersey) when Jack thought he could just say, “Tater, this is my boyfriend, Bitty.” But the words hadn’t come out of his mouth and now here they are.

“...but why you want to be doctor? Hockey not good enough?”

“Nah, man. I’m not good enough for hockey. Not the pros anyway. And I really dig medicine.”

“Maybe you be team doctor. Fix stubborn asshole Canadians.” Tater gives Jack a pointed look.

Bitty looks worriedly at Jack and says quietly, “What does that mean?”

But Ransom doesn’t hear him and is still talking to Tater, so Jack doesn't reply. “Yeah, that is definitely a possibility for me. Working with an NHL team would be sweet. But I have a long way to go. I don’t have to decide yet.”

“Is cool,” Tater says with a grin. 

“Thanks.” From the way Ransom is smiling, Jack thinks the chances of him going into sports medicine just moved several cells up on the Excel spreadsheet.

Tater turns to Bitty, and Jack’s pulse shoots up. “So now you. What is your deal, quiet, blonde friend of Jack?” Bitty’s eyes go owlish. 

“Hey, he’s my friend, too,” Rans adds.

“And his name is _Bitty_ , Tater,” Jack says. 

“I know, I know,” Tater mutters, and he screws up his face trying to get his tongue to cooperate. “B-T. Bee-tee. Is difficult.”

Rans raises an eyebrow. “He sure is. And he’s not usually _quiet_ , either,” he chirps through a bite of chicken, giving Bitty a look. 

Tater laughs. “No? Tell about,” he says. “You are very small, but you play with Zimmboni, yes?”

Bitty nods, and looks over at Jack for a moment in a panic, and Jack just wants to kiss him calm, which he supposes would be one way to do it. He doesn't. 

“Yeah, I sure did.”

“Impress.”

“He was a figure skater, before. He can skate rings around you, Tater,” Jack says, and Bitty kicks him under the table, and mutters (with affection), “Jack.”

“I believe. What else you do, Bee? Doctor, too, like Kidnap?”

Bitty laughs at that, and Jack warms, feeling him putting on confidence. “Naw, nothing like that. These boys will tell you I mostly bake pies and skate and try not to fail my classes. But mostly the pies.”

Tater gets a little quizzical smile and cocks his head. “That so funny, Zimmboni. Many friends who make pies!”

All of the air at the table gets sucked away for a moment. Jack’s eyes lock with Bitty’s (who still looks pale and panicky, even though he's smiling) and his heart thumps in his chest. Rans frowns a little and says, “What do you mean?”

“Zimmboni girlfriend make pies. Now also Bee. So many pies!”

Ransom’s eyebrows can’t arch any higher, mid-bite, and he’s pinging looks back and forth between Bitty and Jack. Jack reaches for Bitty’s hand under the table and Bitty squeezes back, hard. Jack takes a deep breath, sits up straight, and looks right into Mashkov’s big, honest face. 

“Tater…” Breathe. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

Tater snorts. “What you mean? Text before game, text after game. Pie for team, pie for _other_ team. ‘Love you, love you’ on phone all day. Not girlfriend?”

(In the quietest undertone, Jack can hear Ransom murmur, “Fooine,” into his chicken wing.)

Jack swallows. “Only one person sends me pies, Tater, and he’s not my girlfriend.”

Tater opens his mouth like he’s ready to argue back again, but then he stops and his face scrunches up in thought and his lips purse and twist, and then Jack can actually see the exact moment when Tater figures it out. 

“You?” Tater says, pointing at Bitty.

Bitty looks terrified, but he smiles and gives Tater a shy little wave, and Jack has to cover his mouth with his hand to hide the ridiculous smile that he feels blooming on his face. 

“Bee your...boyfriend?”

“Yes.” Jack gets the rush again, like a sweet hit. He plows forward. “You’re one of the first guys I’m telling because, well...you ask about my girlfriend a lot. So now I can tell you.” (Like maybe Tater actually gives a shit about Jack’s life, and fuck it, Jack hopes he isn’t going to need to be traded by Monday.)

Tater frowns down at the table for another moment, like he’s sorting things out. But then he looks up, his wide mouth in a twist, sort of accusatory but teasing, and definitely not upset. “Wait, Zimmboni. You not tell me _first_?”

It’s not any of the reactions Jack had imagined in his many imaginings of this moment. “No, I already told Marty.”

“Marty.” Tater rolls his eyes, and then addresses Ransom. “ _Canadians._ ” All of the tension at the table dissipates.

“Sorry, dude. I’m Canadian too,” Rans says with a grin, and Jack let’s his own smile sneak out.

Tater’s eyes go wide. “No! And you know about this boyfriend?”

Rans nods.

Tater sits back and crosses his arms. “Bullshit. Tater best person to tell first. Give most love. No one understand like Tater. Bee, make poor Tater pie for this sadness.”

Bitty giggles and relaxes his iron grip on Jack’s hand just a bit. “I’ll make you all the pies you want.”

“I want lot of pie.”

“Done.”

*

When Jack goes to the bar to get a celebratory round for everyone, his phone buzzes. 

**Ransom** _I can’t believe my birthday present was watching you come out to Alexei Mashkov._

 **Jack** _Sorry._

 **Ransom** _No, no. Best birthday ever, man. Serious._

 **Jack** _He’s a character, eh?_

 **Ransom** _He sleeps in the nude. He told me this. I know this now._

 **Jack** _I won’t ask how this came up._

 **Ransom** _I have a poster of this man in my room._

 **Jack** _Three posters?_

 **Ransom** _Shut up._

 **Ransom** _But yes._

*

Bitty remains unusually quiet for most of the night, even after. They say goodnight to Tater (enthusiastic hugs and promises of pie) and drop Ransom off at the train (chirps and birthday wishes), and drive home in silence, except that Bitty has not let more than a few seconds go by when he is not touching Jack in some way: hand on thigh, tugging at his waist, holding onto his jean's pocket, shoulders brushing, fingertips on wrist. Jack is on fire with all of the touches by the time they get in the door.

They drop all of the shit they are carrying and Jack pulls Bitty into a full body hug, just needing to get as much contact with him as he can, needing him close, and he can tell Bitty needs it too because his arms are like iron around his back and he lines his legs right up between Jack’s so that there is no space at all between them. They stand, wrapped up like that, for minutes (Jack loses track) until it almost feel like they are going to fall over. 

"You okay?" Jack says at last, pulling back a little and pressing kisses into Bitty’s hair. 

"I don't know how you've done this so many times now, honey," Bitty says, leaning into his chest. "I'm exhausted. And I didn't play three periods of hockey earlier."

Jack laughs a little and pulls them over to the couch so that Bitty can sit down. "I'm making tea, and we are getting in the bath, and..."

Before Jack can walk away to start the kettle, Bitty grabs his hand and pulls him back. "What did he mean? About the doctor, Jack."

It takes Jack a minute to remember what Bitty's even talking about. "Tater?"

Bitty nods and Jack sits down and grabs Bitty's hands and wishes he could stop fucking everything up. "I took a big hit into the boards yesterday morning during a scrimmage. They wanted me to get a full work-up, but I got stubborn about it until coach threatened me and I went for x-rays. I'm fine, Bits. They checked me out and I'm fine and I was cleared to play tonight, and it's fine, bud. I'm fine." Jack's leg is a bruise from hip to knee, and he's on heavy painkillers that he'll need to take again in a few hours, and he should have told Bitty all of this earlier. 

"People want to help you, Jack. They want to help us. We're so lucky, sweetheart. Honestly." Jack doesn't know for sure, but something about the bittersweet tone in his voice make him wonder if Bitty might be thinking about his parents.

"I will. I forget sometimes. How lucky we are."

Bitty curls up against Jack again, and sighs. "Did you know that Alexei Mashkov plays the accordion?"

Jack snorts, and then Bitty starts to giggle and then they are both laughing and kissing and Jack can hardly breathe through the roller coaster of worry and friendship and love that is his life.

*

After tea and a long bath, Jack takes Bitty to bed and kisses every square inch of his body and sucks him off, slow and languid, until he is lying boneless and spent across the sheets and looks like a painting. 

Jack slides up next to him and let's his fingers trace around the defined muscles of his abs, the smooth curve of his ribs. Thinks about all he's willing to do just to have this moment, right now. 

“Jack, sweetheart,” Bitty says, pulling himself close, voice soft and warm against Jack's skin. “What’s next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've caught up with canon, so this is it for this leg of the journey! When we get new canon from Ngozi, you can bet I will start up again mirroring the new episodes as a new story in this series. Thank you so much to those of you who've come along with me this far. It's been a blast. *hugs*


End file.
